The Golden Road
by KatrinaJG
Summary: Sequel to The Greatest Illusion. Alduin is dead and now its time for the Dragonborn to live up to her promise to be Sheogorath's champion. But nothing is ever as it seems with the Madgod and Yrsa is positive she's in over her head. Now if only she can hold on to her sanity long enough to make getting into Sovngarde worth the effort.


Yrsa collapsed to her knees in the snow on the Throat of the World. Exhausted from the battle with Alduin, and the subsequent travel between Sovngarde and Skyrim had sapped what little strength she had left. The cold snow stung the uncovered tips of her fingers, but it was soft and vaguely inviting. Parthunaax's voice rumbled over her, speaking things she didn't really hear, -congratulations she supposed- her focus was on the snow in front of her and not falling asleep.

A great rush of air startled her out of her near doze as it blew threw the short curls of her light coloured hair (during her fight with Odahviing one of his Thu'ums had successfully singed off a large portion of her hair. Yrsa had Lydia crop it close to her head to get rid of the burnt hair smell), and swirled the snow around her. Looking up she saw Parthunaax fly into the horde of dragons above, roaring. She figured he was head dragon now, if they had such a method of ruling. Honestly she didn't know, something about powerful Thu'ums. Yrsa hadn't really been listening to anything other than 'how to kill Alduin', everything else spoken to her about dragons had been filtered into 'unimportant'.

She picked herself off the ground, her legs were shaky but they held and she turned from the mountain top. Why in the Void would Tsun send her to the top of this bloody mountain? Ugh, now she would have to spend the next two days descending and travelling home. Why couldn't he have sent her home to Markarth? She really needed to sleep.

It had snowed here on the Throat of the World since the last time she was here, and the snow was knee-deep in some places. She came to a stop at the first wind sheer that protected the top and sighed. The Dragonborn wasn't sure if she had the strength to use the Clear Skies shout. Yrsa pulled herself up, knowing she wasn't going anywhere if she didn't find the strength and she was a master of finding hidden reserves of strength.

The Thu'um was on the tip of her breath when a familiar magic prickled against her skin, slowly building in intensity as it encapsulated her. It pulled her away from the mountain, away from Skyrim and deposited her in the realm of the Madgod, for who else would yank her so unceremoniously from Nirn? This time instead of dissipating, the magic threaded its way into her body. It was warm and inviting but had a sharp edge to it as it restored her strength and fatigue. Yrsa stretched feeling better than she had in weeks, but also a little unnerved at having the magic used on her so. Magicka and her were never the best of friends. She stopped mid-stretch finally catching sight of her surroundings.

Yrsa had been expecting the vibrant duality of the Shivering Isles to greet her, the wild and ethereal flora that was both graceful and repugnant. However there was none of that where she stood, nor for as far as she could see whilst standing upon a small hill. Turning around, she tried to find the familiar landscape of her previous visit, but it was seemingly gone. Behind her she caught sight of a small fissure in the fabric of the realm, possibly an exit, but she wasn't about to leave; she had too much as stake to do that. Yrsa was sure that the magic that had grabbed her belonged to Sheogorath, but this place was devoid of life, colour, the very madness she expected of his realm. It was worrisome.

The Dragonborn started down the hill, following a path she hoped would lead her to a settlement of some sort where she could ask directions. A strange whistling sound started from somewhere above her, she paused and looked toward the sky that was as dull and grey as the rest of the land around her. There was nothing to see, or that Yrsa could see, but the whistling sound grew louder and louder until finally she saw a blur above her. Suddenly realizing that something was heading toward her at a great speed Yrsa jumped backwards just as the object slammed into the ground. Swaying wildly, with excess energy from the impact, was a large stick of some kind. Approaching slowly she stilled the movements with a hand and saw that it was more than just a simple stick, it was the Wabbajack.

A laugh that was a combination of relief and amusement escaped her. Only Sheogorath.

A two handed grip pulled the staff out from where it had lodged in the ground. With a spare strip of leather she tied the staff to the belt at her waist, opposite from her Blades sword. Yrsa then adjusted the straps that held her Ebony bow and arrows, and set off again. This time only slightly paranoid that something was going to fall from the sky and hit her on the head.

An endless sea of grey stretched out in front of her; grey barren trees, grey ground, grey sky. Every now and again the Dragonborn would recognize a shape looming out of the monotony, from her brief visit to the Isles some months before, but nothing was as she remembered it. Along the path she passed a towering crystal, multifaceted but dull. No shine or sparkle to it, no real light to provide any. It erupted from the ground, and radiated a magicka that chilled Yrsa to the bone. Was this the reason Sheogorath suddenly decided he needed a champion?

The path was unremarkable, and after several minuets of walking, she spotted a stone structure. Yrsa thought perhaps it was a building of some sort, but there was no door. Only strange and menacing statues. _'That's more like it,'_ she thought while gazing on the carvings. Soon after that she saw what she suspected was a village. Picking up her pace, thankful to have found some manner of civilization, Yrsa closed in on the settlement. The clash of metal and shouts alerted her to a battle being fought there and The Dragonborn pulled her bow from her back and readied an arrow.

The path lead her through an arch connected to the towns largest building. Slowly she rounded, drawing the arrow back tight against her face. The battle that was being fought in the middle of the town square and was full of creatures she didn't recognize. Dark and golden skinned women in gleaming armour that she momentarily mistook for elves, but were clearly anything but. They were fighting humanoids in heavy plate armour that reminded Yrsa of the strange crystalline towers that she had come across. She lessened the tension on her bow, trying to decide which side she was supposed to be on.

The brilliant hues of the women's skin and armour stuck out sorely in this dull lifeless place and the Dragonborn decided right then and there who to fire at. The little she'd seen of the Shivering Isles had shown her it was vibrant place, and whoever these dull crystalline soldiers where, they were the enemy. She drew back again and fired upon the knights. Unsurprisingly her arrow bounced off the armour, as they usually did with heavy plate, but it was useful to gauge the thickness of the armour so that Yrsa could decide which Thu'um to use.

If the bounce was short then fire breath would likely panic the wearer because the metal was thin and would absorb the heat making the inside feel uncomfortably like an oven. If the bounce was great, then an ice form would crystallize and harden the metal making it more susceptible to incoming blows. Ice form didn't work in the thinner metal because of it's flexibility, the wearer could move and the ice would break off. Thicker metal provided protection against the heat from a fire Thu'um. And if the armour was somewhere between, then a combination of fire and ice did the trick in weakening it.

Her arrow bounced a good length away from the crystalline solider she fired upon, and she shouted her ice Thu'um at the nearest knight. It was fitting considering the cold magicka at work. He froze solid, and the dark skinned woman fighting it gave a momentary pause. She looked to where Yrsa was standing, and the Dragonborn shouted while stowing her bow and drawing her sword:

"Strike before it wears off!"

The woman wasted no time in doing that, and the knight promptly shattered under the barrage. The Dragonborn was surprised by that, and somewhat put off by it. She imaged small frozen flesh bits thawing all around them, seeping blood and guts, and she recoiled slightly. Then she mentally shook herself; how much death and destruction had she seen and a few thawing body parts suddenly unsettled her? _Honestly._ An entity being entirely shattered had never happened before, and she hoped it wasn't about to become a regular experience. The dark skinned warrior however, seemed satisfied by the result, and looked back to Yrsa.

"Effective mortal, now on to the next." She pointed to where the knights were the thickest, and joined in their battle. Yrsa followed, careful to keep her distance since she was less effective at close range. Finding a clearing free of the brightly hued women, she shouted again, this time catching more that one knight in her Thu'um.

"IISS SLEN NUS!"

Above the noise the first dark skinned women yelled to her companions. "Strike the frozen ones, shatter them under you blows!"

Those that could, left their own fights and together made quick work of those who were frozen. Soon the crystalline knight's where gone, frozen by Yrsa and shattered by the women. The force of her Thu'um had rubbed her throat raw and cracked her lips 'till they were dry and bleeding. She licked the blood from her lips, the coppery tang sharp on her tongue. The dark skinned women who she helped first approached her, slipping her cruel looking mace back into its leather loop.

"Thank you for your assistance, mortal." She paused, as she caught sight get of the Wabbajack tied at Yrsa's waist. "Ah, our Lord sent you, He said He had a champion. I am glad to see it is a woman this time."

"Kiskedrig!" one of the golden skinned women shouted, stalking over. "Quit wasting time talking with this mortal. The knight's hearts must be found and placed in the obelisks to shut them down. Move it!"

The dark skin woman scowled, but said, "As you command Aurig."

Yrsa watched her leave and suddenly she realized that these creatures, these women here on this battle field, were daedra. They reeked of the magic of this realm and she reasoned that they must be its defenders, though clearly they were working together under duress.

"Mortal," the Aurig snapped turning to Yrsa. "Take with you our scout to report to our Lord. If he's with you then at least I'll know his worthless male hide made it." She turned and yelled into the group. "Mercin!"

The Dragonborn starred agape at the golden Aurig. Her form was imposing, her armour glittered even in this pale light, and she must have stood a good three inches taller than Yrsa. Given the Dragonborn's Nord heritage there were very few women who stood taller than her. Before the Aurig turned back, Yrsa clicked her mouth closed and mustered together some manner of indignation over the way that the daedra said 'mortal', as if it was a slur of some kind.

Yrsa then whispered a small healing spell and felt the flesh around her lips and in her mouth knit back together. The Aurig's eyes watched her with a sharp calculating gaze that betrayed nothing. She noted that the strange eyes the daedra had, yellow iris' set in a inky sea with a black slit for a pupil; if she needed anymore proof that these women were anything but mortal, here it was.

A short stocky man then appeared next to the Aurig, the top of his head barely reached the woman's shoulder and he was hardly any higher on Yrsa.

"Aurig?" he asked, deference clear in his voice. He was of the same golden hue that the woman was.

"Go with this mortal, and report the fall of the Fringe to Lord Sheogorath."

"As you command," he replied and the Aurig turned back to the main group, barking orders as she went. He turned, gave a curt nod to Yrsa and headed out of the small village.

The Dragonborn paused for a moment, the words 'fall of the Fringe' echoing in her head. That didn't bode well for the rest of the realm. Yrsa wondered if she was up to the task ahead of her. She had agreed to be a champion without knowing any of the particulars of the job (you'd think that being the Head of the Thieves Guild, Listener _and_ Harbinger she would bloody well know better than to except a job without knowing the particulars) and whatever this was it felt like it was way beyond her means to stop.

She drew a deep breath and steeled herself, then Yrsa trotted to catch up to Mercin. After a short hike up a gradual incline, they came upon some stairs set into the hill side. At the top was a courtyard, with more stairs leading to a huge wall. In the middle of the courtyard was a large grotesque looking creature, it's parts seemingly sewn haphazardly to its frame, a large blade in the place of one hand and a smell that nearly knocked Yrsa to her knees.

"What in the name of Talos is that thing?" she gasped, trying not to breath in through her nose.

Mercin gave her an odd look, apparently the gods awful smell didn't bother him. "The Gatekeeper. He keeps the undesirables out of Lord Sheogorath's realm. You carry the Wabbajack, so you need not worry about fighting him."

Yrsa didn't think she could get any breath inside her lungs to even begin to _think_ about fighting this monstrous creature and she praised every god and daedric prince she could think of that she didn't have to. She followed Mercin up the stairs and to a landing where a great stone bust stood looking out on to the courtyard, considering its placement she thought perhaps it was a representation of Sheogorath, though it didn't really look like him. They continued down a long and dark hallway that culminated in a door. Mercin laid his hand against the wood, a lock tumbled and the door swung open.

The bright light beyond the door blinded the Dragonborn momentarily as she stepped through the threshold. When her vision cleared she felt a smile tug at her lips. Here was the missing life that the previous area so frighteningly lacked, here was the vibrant flora, the glittering sunlight and the daedric magic that hung heavy in the air. This place was full of the bright and the colourful, but as she looked around Yrsa recalled that there was a dark and dreary aspect to the flora of this realm as well, and she did not see any of it here.

"Where is the other..half?" she asked the daedra at her side, gesturing to the flora around them.

Mercin pointed to a large sheer rock face. "That is the land of Dementia, the other half as you say. Here is Mania, we Aureals guard it, and we are the perfect expression of our Lord's might."

Yrsa raised her brows, as she eyed the separating embankment. "So the two don't exist together? There is always a division?"

"Yes, though it is mostly in the minds and hearts of the residents. The Fringe is different, outside the true realm and as such it doesn't follow the same rules."

Mercin had set out on a path that wound its way away from the large gates, Yrsa spared it a look, knowing now she had visited the Fringe on her first visit. She turned and trotted to catch up to her daedric guide.

"What exactly happened to the Fringe?"

"It was taken by Order."

"Order? What like Peryite?"

Mercin gave her a sharp glance. "No," he scoffed, like the very mention of Peryite was an insult. "Lord Jyggalag, He is the Prince of Order. And those crystal soldiers are His Knights."

"Prince of Order..." She paused for a moment considering what she had just learnt. "I didn't know that daedric Princes tried to take over each other's realms. I thought they all had their own specific area."

"Do not think that there is a clear dividing between all Princes and what They rule over, often they interweave." Mercin seemed to tire of this discussion, his answers were clipped, and his tone held vague irritation.

Yrsa ignored this and pressed on. "But does that include invasion? And I've never heard of Jyggalag."

"Many mortals have forgotten Him, the daedra have not. Especially not here in the Isles." His voice held a note of finality, and it was clear that the Dragonborn was not going to get anything further from him.

This was all very odd, not that she expected something normal considering who she was dealing with, but did Sheogorath expect her stop an invasion? She was good, she was the Dragonborn for Talossakes, but daedric machinations good? That was quite possibly over her head. Yrsa sighed and tried to enjoyed the scenery as it went by.

As a brightly coloured butterfly flitted past her, she thought that it would be awful if all this was destroyed by the cold and lifeless Order she'd so recently experienced. The Dragonborn still didn't understand why Jyggalag was trying to take over, every Prince had there own realm, so why take this one? Especially since the Shivering Isles was so chaotic. Wouldn't that just drive the Prince of Order...well, mad?

She supposed that once she reached Sheogorath she'd have more answers. Well, maybe not to her questions, but answers all the same.

* * *

They hadn't travelled on the path from more than a half hour when they came upon a group of people. Some were dressed in fine, brightly coloured clothes, though they were slightly worn and dishevelled, and were of a make she'd never seen before. Others had more ratty clothing, dirty and torn, but still with that same odd quality to them. All of them were caring bundles and Yrsa thought that it was likely they we fleeing from the Knights of Order, though she hadn't seen any of the knight's crystals here.

She meandered through the group, watching, listening. Mercin had left to walk with one of the Aureals leading this group, apparently tired of her presence. Though the female Aureals seemed to treat their men about the same as they treated mortals, so why he would want to be abused in such a manner was beyond her. However, she was glad to be rid of his sour face.

Behind her, harsh whispering caught her attention, she turned to find its source: a guilty looking wood elf was shushing a large round ball in his hand. Yrsa frowned slightly as she turned away and watched the others in this small band. It wasn't long before she heard the whispering again, though this time it was and octave louder.

"No, no, no! I can't ask her, you ask her." There was a moment of silence and then, "Well it's not as if you can't, you talk to me. I'm sure she doesn't care if your a fruit...or that either." More silence. "Okay, alright!"

Yrsa rolled her eyes, and smiled just a little bit.

The bosmer cleared his throat in an attempt to get her attention. She debated for a moment whether or not to respond, but since she was a guest in this realm, Yrsa decided that she should be polite. So she turned, slowing her pace a bit and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Uh, yes. Hello. My...er, friend here couldn't help but notice that you're..." He glanced down at the large pebbled ball in the palm of his hand. "What was it that you noticed? Oh right, your aura, it's different."

A frown flickered across Yrsa's face. She was pretty sure that she knew what he was talking about, and wasn't sure how he knew about that. Nevertheless, she decided that he had to say it aloud before she would confirm or deny anything. People, in her experience, reacted strangely when told she was the Dragonborn, it had become her practise to simply be silent on the matter. Which was a shame, because WULD was so handy...

"Different from what?" she asked. "A breton, a khajiit, a bosmer? Or different from those in this realm?"

The wood elf nodded his head. "Yes." Then he seemed to get a recriminating response from the ball (or maybe it was a fruit, it sort of looked like a giant orange, something she had only seen once near the broader to Cyrodiil) because he vehemently shook his head. "No, no, no. That's not what Stanley meant at all."

"And what _did_ Stanley mean?"

He shot the not-orange a nervous look and then said, "He's says you have an old soul, a soul not becoming a mortal. No, no, but not like a daedra either, though similar to a god, but not like that either."

Yrsa narrowed her eyes at the bosmer. "I though you said, he said that my aura was different. Not my soul." She was unnerved at being so easily read, how could the elf see all that?

"Same thing, same thing," he muttered, waving his one free hand wildly. "Stanley is glad you're here Dohvakiin. It took a Champion to defeat Lord Jyggalag last time, and it is worse this time around. Yes, yes, much worse."

_'Dohvakiin? How did he...' _"Last time? Jyggalag's been here before?"

"Oh yes, Lord Jyggalag always invades, always invaded. And it is too soon for him again, too soon! But our Lord changed the rules, didn't He? He made the two exist separately, separate! But still fighting over the same thing."

Yrsa glanced back at the refugees trudging along the road as the elf words coalesced in her mind. "They're obviously fighting over the Isles," she said and turned back to the elf, who was nodding enthusiastically. "But why?"

He held the ball up to his ear at her question, nodded a few times and then said, "Stanley says that what was once Jyggalag's is now our Lord's and He wants it back."

"What back?"

"Us, everything! You, me, them-" he waved at the Aureals leading the group. "Poor Stanley...the Shivering Isles." The bosmer said the last with such deadly clarity that it surprised Yrsa.

That statement certainly didn't bode well for the realm, or her. She left the wood elf and his strange, not-quite-orange once he seemed to lose focus and started muttering to himself.

The Dragonborn mused over what she just learnt. Isles were once Jyggalag's? What? How was that even possible? And what was all that about the 'always invades' part. There was a great deal she was missing here and it seemed like no one had a straight answer to give.

Yrsa caught up to Mercin and the two Aureals he was with. They were women, like almost all the daedra she had seen in this realm, and Mercin marched a few paces behind them. Yrsa slid into place beside him, and gave him a wide smile. He scowled at her, and her smile only grew.

"So, are we there yet?"

"Perhaps you should use your eyes, mortal," Mercin said, irritation clear in his voice as he pointed to top of the hill they had began climbing.

Yrsa followed his line, and saw, just over the top of the trees, a large stone city. A stately looking building that could only be a palace, was perched haphazardly on the cliff, overlooking a sea she could only hear and smell at the moment. The rest was sprawled indiscriminately over the sloping side of the cliff and a flame flickered in the distance. The stone of the walls was bright, though not exactly orderly; it seemed warm and unrepentantly mad.

"Oh, wow.." she murmured, suddenly realizing this must be what Lydia see in the hash nature of Skyrim. Not that Yrsa didn't appreciate her homeland, just that nothing had ever grabbed her quite like this place had.

They crossed a stone bridge upon approaching the gates, a burbling rush of river water flowed beneath them as it journeyed to an azure sea. There were two more Aureals standing guard at the gate. The ones leading this pathetic band of displaced citizens spoke a few hushed words with them. Mercin stood back, and Yrsa did as well. Though she did want to hear what they were talking about, considering their apparent dislike of mortals she decided not to push her luck.

The Aureals at the gates, turned and shoved the heavy wooden doors open, revealing a bright, bustling interior. Yrsa followed Mercin, who in turned followed the Aureals leading the group through the gate. The citizens behind them piled into the interior, and gathered themselves in the small courtyard just beyond the gates. The leading Aureals were standing next to a fountain depicting mermaids and an overseeing god. Mercin moved past them, hardly sparing a glance at the stone buildings, each graceful and artful in an almost crooked way. As if the buildings themselves were on the very cusp of madness.

Yrsa trotted to catch up to Mercin for a third time that day (how was it that he was so short and yet so fast?) barely sparing a glance for her footing. The architecture around her was engrossing and the citizens of this place were a delicious garnish. Their outfits were colourful and garish, and more outlandish in their designs than anything she'd ever seen. It was a struggle to tear her eyes from one person to the next, even with the promise of something more intriguing than the last.

She stumbled on a uneven patch of stone and grabbed on to Mercin's pauldron to prevent herself from urgently kissing the ground. Despite is look of irritation, he grasped Yrsa's arm and steadied her.

"What is this place?" she said, voice low and awed.

"New Sheoth, capital of the Shivering Isles. This is the district of Bliss," Mercin replied with no little amount of smug pride in his voice. He drew her gaze to a large wall with a bright burning teal coloured flame. "That marks the divide between the half's, beyond is the district of Crucible."

"And that?" Yrsa asked, indicating the flame.

A scowl darkened Mercin's features. "The Great Torch. It's it currently lit in favour of Dementia, despite us having control over Cylarn." Mercin walked on, leading her to the base of a great stair case and began climbing it.

"Why's that?"

"Because our Lord willed it."

Obviously a sore spot with the Aureals then. Of course they didn't seem to take pleasure in much of anything that Yrsa could see. Harsh, sour-faced lot.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, and the archway that lead to a large courtyard, Yrsa was mildly out of breath. There were _a lot_ of stairs. They stepped out from under the stone awning, and followed a stone path toward a large, vaguely horseshoe shaped building. It was huge, imposing, and all around her Yrsa felt the air here was especially thick with magic. So much so that it gave this particular area the feeling of being in a world of its own, apart and yet separate from the rest of the Isles.

They began climbing a second set of stairs, past duel retaining stone walls, each with two large flames. One half a bright teal colour, mimicking the Great Torch and the other was a brilliant orange, like the setting of the sun. Yrsa grumbled under her breath at the prospect of even more stairs after the initial set to simply get up to the palace grounds. It was like climbing to High Hrothgar only -thankfully- less cold.

When they reached the final landing, Yrsa was immensely grateful to see that no more stairs remained. Directly in front of them were two doors, angled to form a point. A single Aureal guarded one door while a of the dark skinned daedra guarded the other, and like nearly all the daedra she'd seen, both were women. In fact the only male daedra she'd seen so far was Mercin. It was odd, up to this point the only daedra minions she'd met were male, it was a nice change of pace. Even if the Aureals were rather unpleasant.

Mercin lead her briskly to the door with the Aureal guarding it and much to Yrsa's chagrin she was lagging behind with a bit of a stitch in her side. "Why are always so many Void damned stairs? What's wrong with a nice level plain every once and a while?" she grumbled to herself and she thought she caught a glimpse of a smirk on the Aureal's face, which only served to make her like them less. Mercin had pretty much forgotten about her now that they were this close to an audience with Sheogorath and neglectfully did not hold the door for her. It nearly closed on Yrsa's face before she caught it. She had a few less than kind things to say about him after that.

Following the theme of the rest of the Isles, the Throne room was a study in duality, and like any good Throne room it was overtly ostentatious. The room was long, richly decorated tapestries hung from the room's columns, and beautifully embroidered rugs covered the stone path to Sheogorath's throne. All of this was divided with one half a vibrant violet and the other a dark red. Twin torches, mimicking the ones outside the palace, burned at the end of the room where Yrsa entered.

Mercin trotted down the few stairs onto the main landing leading to Sheogorath's throne. Yrsa followed him at more sedate pace, taking in the room; specifically the trophies lining either side of the walls. At least she assumed they were trophies of a kind. Why any one would want a grotesque and mangled severed head or the still beating heart of some enemy on display was beyond her. Though, she thought that the chalice was quite nice.

Yrsa turned from the displays in time to catch Mercin dropping neatly to one knee before Sheogorath and then rising and giving his report, tone grave. "Your forces hold their ground in the Fringe my Lord, but it has been lost to Order. All we can do now is try and prevent the knights from spreading to the rest of the Isles."

"Oh don't look so put out by it, Mercin." Sheogorath said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The Fringe is always lost first. He's so predictably dull like that. Why, it's as if He learnt nothing during His time as Me!"

Mercin nodded as if this was the most sage advice he'd ever heard and then continued, "My Lord, Aurig Desha has requested additional troops to bolster the ones in the Fringe. We must prevent Knights from spilling into the rest of the Isles."

"Must you? Well, let me think about... Request denied!" Sheogorath declared in a sing-song voice and then laughed. "Tell Desha to pull back to the gates and hold there. In the mean time we have a Champion, fresh from Nirn! Look at her! So tall and proud, the very image of a Nord! 'Course I always though you were a bunch of uncouth barbarians personally, but maybe that's just what I need. Again! Ha! Seems like I'm always relying on a Nord to help me out in the Isles. I'd say it was fate but really its just a wonderfully terrible coincidence."

It wasn't the first time Yrsa had heard that particular insult against her or her people, but somehow coming from Sheogorath she wasn't sure if she should be offended by the remark or laugh at the absurd juxtaposition between the past Breton and present Madgod. She settled on slightly confused and decided to ignore the remark altogether. Instead focused on forming a question that might get her some answers.

"Lord Sheogorath," she began, hoping that a little respect might curry her some favour, "I need more information on what going on here. I gather the Isles are under attack by another daedric prince, Jyggalag, but I-"

"Oh dear,"Haskill's droll and not at all alarmed voice interrupted from her right, "I see you didn't advice our latest champion on the etiquette of our Lord's court, Mercin."

Yrsa turned and looked at the Chamberlain with a frown, wondering what exactly was meant by that statement, she didn't see anything wrong with what she said. The Dragonborn looked at Mercin, who avoided her gaze and was making himself as small a target as possible, and with his lack of height that was saying something. Then she felt it, the way the magic in the room seemed to grow heavy and dark and how all sound and movement stopped. She chanced a quick look at Sheogorath.

"Never say _His_ name in _My_ court. _Never._ As long as the Isles are Mine, He is never to be named."

It took every ounce of courage and strength Yrsa had accumulated through her long arduous journey to save Nirn to stand her ground under that low yet violent verbal assault. The magicka in the room was swirling hot and dangerous around her, singeing the edges of her armour and making the short curled wisps of her hair smoke. She gave a curt nod of understanding and abruptly the mood of Sheogorath and that of the room changed.

"On a lighter note," he continued, standing from his throne, "you're just in time! For what exactly, I have no idea, so let's just say you're here to solve a little problem of mine." Sheogorath trotted down the short stairs from the platform his throne sat on. He tossed his cane at Haskill, who deftly caught it. "You're headed to one of my favourite spots on the Isles, Xedilian! Nothing like a spot of torture in the morning to liven the spirits! With the Fringe overrun, the Knights of Order are doing their best to get on My nerves. And after all the work I put into getting Xedilian running again I can't have it out of commission again, now can I?"

"No?" Yrsa replied unsure as to whether her her input was required. She was also somewhat miffed by the fact she knew nothing more about the invasion than she did before Sheogorath burnt her hair. Though, she was thankful to still be alive. She was not looking forward to seeing Sithis anytime soon, no matter how highly Lucien spoke of the Dread Father.

"Of course not! It shouldn't be much trouble, for you mortal. Not like there are grummites wandering around the place disrupting the Resonator." Sheogorath stopped speaking for a moment to pick at her armour, a displeased look crossing his face. Then he continued as he walked a slow circle around her. "But the Knights do like the giant Obelisk that runs the place, so go and fortify the place so we don't have any pesky Knights or mortals wandering where they don't belong."

Yrsa self consciously glanced at her armour, she was wearing her Nightingale regalia. Mostly. She hadn't bothered wearing the helm that came with it as it limited her vision too much, and a while ago she had ripped the cape off in a fit of pique when it tangled in her bow for the umpteenth time. Then of course she cut the fingers out of the gloves because she aimed better with her bow when she could feel the arrow and string beneath her fingers. It was currently her preferred choice, as the amour was incredibly strong and yet light and easy to manoeuvre in, the only downside was the nearly impossible to find void salts that were needed to repair it.

Sheogorath must have noticed her unease about her amour because he gave a short noise of laughter as he returned to his throne. "Take Nelvean with you when you go, wandering through Dementia can be dangerous. Believe Me, I know! Haha! Now get out of here before I forget Myself and decide you'd better suited as a trophy to taunt Nocturnal than as a champion."

A clearer dismissal Yrsa had never heard and she knew that the trophy line wasn't a joke, she shuddered to think how the head had made it into his trophy stand. She turned from the throne and found one of the dark skinned women standing behind her.

"This way mortal," the woman said and Yrsa followed. Her tone of voice was far less superior and distasteful when she spoke 'mortal', though it was said with much less affection that when Sheogorath spoke it. That was fine by the Dragonborn, she didn't think having affection from the Madgod was good for her sanity.

As they exited the palace and the woman spoke again. "I am Nelvean, and as our Lord commanded, I will guide you to Xedilian. Is there any supplies you need before we are off?" Her tone was brisk and all business but there wasn't any sort of irritation at having Yrsa along as there had been with Mercin. It was a pleasant change of pace.

"Well Nelvean, I am flat out of any kinds of potions and my sword could use a new edge. Also my amour could stand to be repaired but I'm not holding my breath on that one."

Nelvean gave her an appraising glance as they trotted down the palace courtyards many steps. "You are lucky mortal that our Lord was in a forgiving mood. It is unwise to wear one daedric Lord's artifacts in the realm of another."

_'Oh,' _thought Yrsa, _'that's what that was all about.'_

"I appreciate the information, but it is a little late. Perhaps if I had a bit more warning before I was yanked from Nirn. After, I might add, I had just barely returned to the land of living from Sovngarde. Also, my name is Yrsa, it would be nice if one of you daedra used it around here." She tried and failed at not being huffy for that last part. No matter how kindly 'mortal' was spoken it still rankled her as an insult.

Nelvean gave her a smirk at the end of that little rant as they pasted from the courtyard into the dark and gloomy district of New Sheoth. "Very well, Yrsa. We _daedra_ are known as Mazken, and we are the perfection of our Lord's might."

The Dragonborn felt a smile curl her lips, there seemed to be a bit of a competition between the various daedra of this realm as to who served their Lord better. She filed that little piece of information away, and said, "So, Nelvean, where are the shops in this place?"

* * *

Crucible, as Yrsa found, was a crucible. There were far too many stairs for her taste and great holes in the stone streets. Most of which were filled to the brim with a foul stagnant water that she was certain would ruin her boots if stepped in. Strange growths glided along many walls and nearly obscured doors and shop signs. The buildings were a dull greyish green, as if the very stones cut to make them were singularly depressed. Every building had a distinct lean to it; closing in and over the streets, looming in a decidedly menacing way and blocking what little light there was from hitting the ground.

The air was dank and musty, heavy with humidity and magicka, so much so that it made it oppressive to breath. To Yrsa's horror, the people of this district seemed unconcerned about their bare feet and had no problem wading in and out of the puddles. Nelvean also seemed uncaring as she briskly tromped through any that were in her way.

The people who lived there had clothing much like the buildings, drab, dull and distinctly demented. Everything about its citizens had the air of being just slightly off; from the odd wood elf who spoke in nothing but gibberish to the more upper class of the district who had pet zombies trailing after them. The Dragonborn knew that the soft squelch of the walking dead was going to haunt her dreams while she was here.

Nelvean guided her to the armourer of Crucible. The shop was hidden in a bit of a back alley. So blackened and gnarled was the sign that had Yrsa not a guide she never would have found it on her own.

The small, lithe bosmer appropriately named Cutter cooed over her Blades sword and sharpened its edge to within an inch of its life. Then she sliced her own forearm with the new edge practically purring in pleasure as her blood whetted the blade. Then she rubbed it down and presented it back to Yrsa, who carefully slipped it back in its metal loop, careful not to cut her leg off in the process. The Dragonborn handed over the appropriate Septims as Nelvean assured her they took gold in this realm, before they could leave Cutter asked about Yrsa's armour.

"It smells like darkness and shadows, but I can see it is damaged. Do you want it repaired?"

"It needs void salts for repairs, and I don't have any with me, and I'm guessing you don't have any either." Yrsa explained and the bosmer shook her head. "So it has to stay damaged for now."

"You could talk with Relmyna Verenim, she may have void salts you can purchase. But be careful of her, she has a certain...fondness for our Lord and will not take kindly to a female champion."

Yrsa took a moment to weigh the possibility of armour repair against that of possible bodily harm -the way Cutter spoke of Relmyna seemed to suggest that. "Perhaps if I come across her I will."

Cutter laughed, a strangled sort of sound that made the hairs on Yrsa neck stand up. "You won't just run across her, she lives in Xaselm and doesn't often have visitors."

The Dragonborn nodded and stepped out of the store, glad to have that creepy little bosmer out of striking distance.

Nelvean lead her back to the main thoroughfare. "Unless you have a task from our Lord, I wouldn't suggest knocking on Relmyna's door."

"Oh, I won't. I like living, thank you very much. I'm hoping that I might eventually get a moment for myself and pop back to Skyrim," Yrsa said and Nelvean smirked. Mortals seemed to enjoy holding onto the unlikely.

Next they went into a tavern located at the edge of Crucible. It was run by a woman who was aptly named Sickly Bernice, as she seemed to be fighting a cold of some sort. Bernice refused to deal with anyone who wasn't at least the width of the bar away from her lest they catch what she had. Yrsa asked for some healing and fatigue potions, as well as some simple foods and water. When they left her bag was comfortably full again.

Nelvean lead her to the exit and they set out on their journey in earnest.


End file.
